


snowkissed palms

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, dmitry lowkey cares a lot, vlad was totally in on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 02:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Dmitry is either very good or very bad at pretending not to care.





	snowkissed palms

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Anastasia on broadway today and I
> 
> I
> 
> I can’t even
> 
> (Written for the prompt, “I worry, you know?” My Tumblr is [abroholoselephanta](http://abroholoselephanta.tumblr.com/)!)

Dmitry takes one look at Anya’s pale hands as she slips them from the pockets of her coat, and exclaims, “You’ve got to be freezing!”

He doesn’t mean to say anything; really, he shouldn’t care. The words slip out before he can stop them, however, and it’s instinct rather than good sense that leaves him gaping at Anya’s exposed hands. Her fingers and flushed bright red with cold; her knuckles and palms are stark white, leaving blue veins to trace rivulets along her pale skin. Her hands look halfway to ice already; just looking at them makes Dmitry’s own palms ache.

Anya’s already gaping at him. “What?” she demands, half defensive — but mostly bemused. She _really_ doesn’t have any idea. Dmitry fights to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“Are you crazy? You’ll freeze your fingers off if you keep them uncovered like that, it’s the middle of winter! Where are your gloves?”

Anya holds his gaze for a moment before letting out a surprised snort. Her eyes spark, in that way that always reminds him of his first and only sip of champagne. (He was eleven years old, and one of his street friends pilfered a bottle from a restaurant kitchen. Dmitry drank two sips and nearly choked at how the bitter liquid fizzed on his tongue.)

“What’s it matter to you if my hands are cold?” she demands. He can’t stand the scrutiny on her face; he responds by drawing up and scowling at her.

“I worry, you know. We can’t have you freezing to death on us before we can even find a train to Paris.” (Though, knowing Anya, she’s probably get herself killed doing something reckless much sooner than she’d end up frozen.)

Anya isn’t deterred by his brusqueness at all. Her eyes dance; a grin splits across her face. “So, you admit you worry about me?”

“What? No!”

“You just said it!”

“I didn’t mean it like that! I don’t worry about you, I worry about me!”

Anya draws out her “ahhhh-huh” until every syllable grates at Dmitry’s skin. He hastily turns his attention to a book on the nearby table; the idea of throwing it at Anya is dangerously appealing. Vlad has implemented a very strict “no throwing things” rule, however (after their last fight ended in a smashed window, and very nearly broke Vlad the peacekeeper’s nose), and Dmitry isn’t eager to break it. (If he does, Vlad will force him to sleep under the smashed window.)

“So if you’re really not worried about me at all,” she drawls, “you won’t mind if I go back out like this.”

She waggles her fingers. Dmitry rolls his eyes. No, he certainly _would_ mind; he’d mind even more if Anya were to come back frostbitten.

Of course, he isn’t about to say that. He’s already shoved his foot in his mouth enough for one day. Dmitry just scowls out the window, flops into the nearest chair, and picks up the old book.

“Nope,” he replies. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“Right,” says Anya. There’s a flat note to her voice. If Dmitry didn’t know better, he’d almost think she was disappointed.

He reminds himself that he doesn’t care. He might not be above a lot of things, but he certainly would never _worry about Anya._

(Anya returns from work the next day to find a new pair of leather gloves — only slightly worn — waiting on the table for her. When she exclaims in surprise, Dmitry quickly turns his eyes away from her. He can feel her gaze lock on him, burning him, for a split second — then Vlad exclaims how he couldn’t stand seeing Anya without anything to cover her hands, something just had to be done, and she turns away. Dmitry casts Vlad a thankful nod when Anya isn’t paying attention.

He sneaks one glance at her, in her brand new gloves, and then is very careful not to look again.)

**Author's Note:**

> dmitry totally stole those gloves.


End file.
